The Parting of Ways

by J. Thorn

  They were all hungry. It had been too long since they filled their bellies, and the Walking Ones no longer stayed in the forest.

  The Brother was thankful that they had lost none of their number, but the weariness was still heavy upon them.

  Sensing the mood of his kin, The Brother stood from his shelter, nearest to the trees, and sniffed at the air, feeling the cold wind rushing through his fur.

  There it is , that scent again , he thought, the scent that is unfamiliar. It was a smell of the Walking Ones, but like none he had ever sensed before. These ones were of a different kind, from a different place. But now this group was close.

  And there was another smell on the wind, masked by their strangeness, but it was one he was familiar with—the smell of blood. One of the Walking Ones was wounded.

  The Brother moved through the glade, leaving the safe warmness of the pack, and stopped at the far side of the clearing, where the slope began. He looked down over the trees, and into the valley below, and then further down to where the ruins of the ancient Walking One buildings were.

  They move down there, he thought.

  A sharp shout cut through the air, drifting up from the valley below.

  Yes. Definitely Walking Ones, The Brother thought. He turned back to the pack, now even greater in number since the newborn had grown over the last few months.

  More mouths to feed.

  He turned again and looked down into the valley, where the voices came from, thinking that it was definitely the strangers again, and he did not enjoy the risk of attacking Walking Ones.

  But it’s necessary , he thought.

  Decided, he barked almost silently, but loud enough for his pack to hear, and many of them rose from the ground, stretching. The adults—the stronger males and the females that were not with cub—would follow. They started to move from the clearing, heading over to where The Brother waited.

  He turned once more and looked back down into the valley, and then, without another thought, he leapt into the undergrowth.

  * * *

  The injured Cygoa took a deep breath and hauled himself forward, one inch at a time.

  Just a few more yards , he thought, is all you would need to make the tree line. But the arrow was so painful, and it was so difficult to move. He lay there for a moment, his chest heaving.

  If you lie here any longer, there may be another rumble, and the land underneath you could fall into the chasm. That would be it for him, then, just as it had been for his fellow clansmen that had fallen into the darkness below. They were all gone—apart from the ones that had gone around the side of the building. If they lived, still, they could be stuck on the other side.

  If they had made it that far. They could already be in the depths below, having fallen when the ground opened up and swallowed his brothers.

  There was a loud crack from a few feet away, and he turned his head, grimacing with the pain in his chest, but managing to stare up to see yet another arrow, a third one, stuck into the tree just a few feet away.

  They were playing with him, he thought. And somehow it also confirmed that his brothers must not have made it to the building. The ones that had gone south, to attack more silently, must either still be this side of the new valley or they had fallen.

  You could be alone here, he thought.

  There was laughter from the building on the other side of the chasm. Damn hunters were showing no worry of being noisy now that they believed they had watched their pursuers die. He hoped, as he tried to haul himself forward just a bit more, that his clansmen had made it across and would soon attack.

  If they have survived they must be hiding in the tree line farther down from the ruined building, he thought. And maybe they were recovering, shocked at the ground opening up, but they will regain their confidence soon, and the attack will happen anyway. He pulled at the earth, reaching for the vines at the bottom of the tree, finally grasping them and almost screaming with pain as he pulled himself into the shade before dragging himself a few more feet beyond the tree line.

  No more arrows , he thought and turned onto his side. He lay there, breathing deeply, before looking down at the shaft sticking out from his chest. He tried to judge how deep it was—would it have to come out the front? Or must he put it all the way through? It was stuck deep.

  All the way through , then , he thought, and he reached forward to grab at the shaft

  You must do this , he thought. If you wish to live, the arrow must be removed, and then you can try to think about getting up and heading back to the camp. He grasped the arrow, took one more deep breath, and pushed.

  * * *

  The scent of blood was strong. The Brother could sense its rich, cloying smell invading his nostrils. But they were getting ever closer to the great hole that opened up in the ground, and that he was fearful of. The pack moved swiftly through the trees, and The Brother could see the chasm off to the left, its great widening mouth opening up and swallowing anything and everything, drawing it down into the earth.

  He would not become a victim of the earth, would not be eaten by the very land.

  The Brother moved at the head of the pack, leading them through the trees until they came upon the Walking One in the clearing.

  This was where the scent had come from, this one. In the clearing ahead he saw the body of the Walking One. He slowed until he came to the line of bushes at the side of the open ground. The Walking One lay three full lengths away, and The Brother saw the cause of the injury. The Walking One, it seemed, had been struck by one of the Flying Claws that they used to hunt.

  This pleased the Brother. He thought it just.

  This Walking One would be his prey, taken down by a Flying Claw. The other wolves of his pack gathered around him, and then, without a command or a noise, they moved forward as one, surging into the clearing. The Brother reached the Walking One first, and the creature turned to see the flood of wolves, a wall of fur and teeth, rushing at him. He had time for his eyes to go wide with terror before The Brother clamped his teeth around the Walking One's neck and bit down hard.

  * * *

  Briar stopped laughing, as did the others, as the screams began. They moved quickly to the entrance and peered across the chasm, looking into the trees. There was movement over there—a lot of it—but it wasn’t his pursuers. No. He saw fur and flashes of bright eyes and teeth, and the screaming. The man they had been toying with as target practice, just as a little fun, was now becoming a feast for the wild.

  Briar’s stomach churned and a trickle of cold sweat ran down his back as he heard the long drawn out screams muffled into silence.

  Chapter 45

  Gaston leafed through the book before snapping it shut, the pages pushing air filled with dust into his face. He paused and let loose a sneeze. He wiped bloody mucous away with the back of his hand. He looked down at the fine droplets of red on the book’s weathered cover.

  Leave it , he thought. How fitting to now have a Book of Blood.

  Gaston heard a rustle and looked over his right shoulder. A woman stumbled around the base of White Citadel. She walked as if intoxicated and yet she had no flask in her hand. He watched, listening to the infection gurgle in her chest as she wheezed. Gaston could smell disease coming from her, a stink like an animal rotting in the sun. She walked past, her feet slapping the worn ground at the base of the tower. Gaston let her go, not bothering to ask how she was or where she was headed.

  He turned and faced the summit and the black ribbon of ancient asphalt that brought them into the valley, to the chosen land of White Citadel. Gaston smiled, remembering the excitement in Roke’s voice when they first saw the beautiful peak of the tower.

  The sun had risen enough to chase the night chill away. Clouds hovered above, a slight wind pushing them gently westward.

  No birds , he thought. Nothing here is alive. Not even us.

  The long winter had continued into what had to be spring. Gaston sensed the change in his bones and yet
the land felt stunted. Buds formed on the tree branches but they did not open. The clan had given up on hunting moons ago, and all of the deer trails had long since gone cold.

  Seren.

  The thought of roasted venison and a full belly reminded him of Seren. She who could hunt better than any. Where was she? Who was she with? The girl was alive. He had no doubt. Gaston knew she was not dead. He felt her.

  “It is time, sir.”

  Gaston shook the daydreams from his head and turned to face the man standing before him. He couldn’t remember his name but, then again, it didn’t really matter.

  “We are gathered. The women have made wheat stew and the children have collected kindling.”

  “Good, good,” Gaston said, his tone betraying his words. “Let’s begin the celebration.”

  It had been a long winter, and Gaston was thankful the book had got him through it. Without it, without faith, he’d be like Seren—adrift in a sea of trees.

  “The twins. Are they ready, too?” Gaston asked.

  “They have been practicing their song for days. I think you will enjoy the celebration. We all will.”

  Gaston clapped the man on the shoulder, eliciting a long series of dry, barking coughs. He waited for the man to finish. “Today is our day. Today we give praise to White Citadel.”

  “Our sacred place,” the man said through the last grumbles of a cough.

  “Yes, our sacred place,” Gaston said, repeating the mantra as they had throughout the winter. “Please gather everyone so we can begin the festivities.”

  The man nodded and stumbled away from the base of the tower and into the camp. Another fit of coughs gripped the man’s chest, and Gaston watched as he stumbled into the tree trunks, trying to breathe and keep his balance at the same time. Moments later, his people gathered before him at the tower’s base.

  “Today is the day of rebirth. The day when the sun turns its life-giving light to White Citadel. Let us give thanks.”

  Those standing before their leader bowed and touched their fingers to their lips before raising them to the tower.

  “We will celebrate. Feast. Laugh. Sing.”

  Gaston looked upon their faces, trying to ignore the festering sores. The woman closest to him smiled and he saw the black film on her loose gums, nothing but holes where teeth used to be. He felt a cramp in his stomach and turned a retch into a cough. He continued.

  “Let us give thanks,” he said again, this time raising his arms out and palms up toward the sky. “White Citadel, our savior and our future.”

  “Our peace and our forever,” they said to Gaston, the words thin and worn.

  Gaston nodded and the people meandered and mingled, some sharing pieces of hardened bread while others ladled weak soup into bowls. He wanted to read from the book or scream, anything to break the silence. Before he could do so, the twins began to sing.

  Two girls, neither of whom had seen their first blood, stood on a cart. They appeared to be mirror images of each other, twins in both birth and appearance. One child wore a sore on her left cheek and the other had one below her right eye. If it were not for the disease, Gaston would not know one from the other. Each had long, scraggly blond hair that lay in tangles on their shoulders. He saw bright, bare spots of skin where clumps of hair had already fallen out.

  He listened as they sang, their voices soft and sorrowful like mourning doves. Gaston felt tears welling up and decided to let them fall upon his face. He would not wipe them away or hide his emotions from his clan.

  Strong leaders are not afraid of who they are , he thought. Or who they’ve become.

  The girls sang, their eyes closed and their hands clasped around each other’s. The people sipped from soup bowls or flasks, but most stood motionless before the cart.

  Gaston then closed his eyes and felt the tears burning lines down his face. He coughed and gripped the book to his chest. The girls finished their song but nothing filled the void to replace it until a woman coughed.

  “Praise be to White Citadel,” he said.

  “Praise be to the tower,” they said back.

  This has to be done.

  “We gather to celebrate one of our own, one who has left us for green fields and bountiful harvests.”

  The people of the clan dropped their heads.

  “It is not up to us to question our path, the one given by the book.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the twins had stepped down from the cart. Their mother ushered them away from it, their father’s diseased corpse rotting in a shallow grave. Gaston pushed the memory of plague from his mind and continued.

  “We are of the fortunate few to have reached White Citadel, and so we give thanks to the book. Praise be to White Citadel.”

  “Praise be to the tower,” they said, this time with the energy of a soft breeze.

  Gaston decided it was no longer possible—or desirable—to delay the inevitable. It had to be done. “And praise be to our brother who we send off this day.”

  He grabbed the shovel from where it was leaning against the tower and used it to scoop a spadeful of dirt. He tossed it on the body, wrapped in a thin cloth, lying in a shallow, cold grave.

  Chapter 46

  The skies opened, dropping a cold rain upon the land. Massive storm clouds twisted within each other and lightning flashed over Eliz. Jonah closed his eyes, stuck his tongue out to taste the bitter water, and shivered. He faced east, counting the tops of the ruins and noting there were less than there had been only days ago. The storm-filled sky mingled with the ancient dust. The winds pushed the wall of fine debris west and toward the plain where the Elk had lived through the winter.

  “Now what?” Gunney asked. He stood behind Jonah, his arms folded and his teeth chattering inside of his skull like cracked marbles. “How bad is it?”

  Jonah shook his head and sighed. “Could be thousands. None of the hunter clans know how many have taken refuge in Eliz. They haven’t been to the ruins in years.”

  He saw movement on the horizon. Jonah watched as the cloud, pregnant with spring chill and dust, roiled near the surface. There had been rumbles coming from deep within the earth that had kept them awake for days. But this felt different.

  They’re coming , Jonah thought.

  Gunney stepped up to speak to Jonah but the cloud changed again.

  Near the surface, and still a few miles in the distance, Jonah watched as what appeared to be insects crawled from the cloud. Within a few moments, however, he knew they were refugees. And they were coming west. Toward the plains. Right at his clan.

  “Holy fuck. Is that—”

  “Clans. Many people. Yes, Gunney,” said Jonah.

  Gunney’s eyes fluttered, and Jonah stared hard at the movement, the scene almost too much for him to comprehend. Shapes fell forward from the cloud, moving fast and coming right at them. Jonah calculated the distance in his head and realized the human flood would consume them in twenty minutes or less. He stood, paralyzed, watching the cloud of humanity on the ground seep from Eliz as the storm cloud above came with them. They were still too far away, but it was as if the dust had covered hundreds of corpses and had reanimated them. Jonah swallowed hard, and he jumped when Gunney’s hand seized his elbow.

  “There are so many.”

  Ghafir appeared on the opposite side of Jonah and spoke without invitation. “They will be armed and expecting a fight.”

  “And so will we,” said Jonah. He turned to face his strongest warriors, who were standing shoulder to shoulder behind him. “Get your axes up,” Jonah said.

  He turned back to the ruins of Eliz and saw that the human cloud had grown and moved closer. The desperate and frightened inhabitants of the forgotten city spilled forth, as if from a breached levy. Minutes passed and yet he struggled.

  We will die here.

  “Step up and engage the first man. He will be the chief of the strongest clan,” Ghafir suggested.

  Jonah nodded at Ghafir, trusting the
man’s judgment after living for so long in the shadow of Eliz.

  The human cloud came closer, and Jonah began to see faces. The warriors ran west, weapons raised, and their white eyes pierced through a dust-coated skin the color of the dead ocean. Some had used charcoal to draw war-lines on their faces. The sound of their shouts gathered and arrived like a slow wave of thunder.

  Jonah identified the first man and noticed the gap between him and the rest of the warriors.

  “Him,” Ghafir said, using a blade to point at the attacker. “Meet him first.”

  Jonah blocked out the screams of the women and children of the Elk, who had nowhere to hide from the onrushing horde. Their tents and rickety shelters would protect nothing and nobody from the onslaught. He pushed thoughts of Sasha and the children from his mind.

  The leader was now only a few hundred feet from him, and Jonah had less than a minute to decide which move to use first. Jonah decided he would attack and take a power position. He started jogging toward the man, his axe held high. They made eye contact, and the warrior raised his weapon, too. He circled the club in the air, as if to spur on his frightened army.

  Jonah ran, his heart beating in his ears. He no longer heard the cries of the Elk, the storm, or the shouts of the warriors on either side. He was now less than twenty yards from his attacker. Jonah’s mind took a snapshot of the man’s face, a mixture of dust, war-paint and fear. He held the image in place while his legs propelled his body forward.

  Ten yards separated the warriors when the leader of the other tribe stopped. He raised his free hand, and the warband behind him also stopped.

  Jonah kept a tight grip on his axe.

  “We are Nikkt, supreme clan of Eliz. We have the right to these lands.”

  “What is happening to Eliz?” Jonah asked, deciding in the moment to not resist or capitulate.

  “The earth-mother. She is not happy,” the man said.

  Jonah felt a moment of opportunity, a sliver of safe space within an imminent explosion. “We felt it. My scouts have reported giant fissures in her, some large enough to swallow—”